


The Macavity Files

by thecountessolivia



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Cats, Cats, Err.. they're all cats, Graphic depictions of cats, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-05 22:45:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6726412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecountessolivia/pseuds/thecountessolivia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Bond pounced onto a stool and caught the bartender's eye. </i>
</p><p><i>"Cream. Whipped, not clotted."</i><br/> <br/>----------<br/>James Bond and Q are cats. Actual cats. So is everyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gus' Milk Bar

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter updates will be posted every Sunday.

Bond pounced onto a stool and caught the eye of the bartender, who chirped in recognition.

"Cream. Whipped, not clotted."

The old tom nodded and flicked his paw against the brass tap. Having filled the crystal bowl, he garnished it graciously with a rolled anchovy fillet and slid the cream under Bond's nose.

Gus' Milk Bar. Bond liked the place. He'd been coming here for years. For a bar so close to HQ it was surprisingly free of agents, which suited him just fine. The young recruits in particular have been grating on Bond lately. The few he'd seen at Gus' had been yowling insufferably and sharpening their claws on his favourite wooden beam.

The cats behind the bar knew him, of course, but left him well enough alone whenever he came in to lick his wounds. Tonight they'd have to be especially obliging.

He lapped at his cream half-heartedly. Everything hurt. Two of his claws snapped when he'd tried to wiggle himself free from the harness of the drone transport that was meant to get him as far away as possible from Macavity's goons. When his navigation and collar comms failed, he ditched the damn thing in the Thames, spun and rolled through the air like a top and dropped from a great height onto a concrete dock. He'd gotten away - barely - but there were only so many times an agent could land on all four paws like that before joints wore and bones fractured. 

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and took stock. The reflection was reassuring. All right, the tabby-striped golden fur was a bit more matted than it once was. But the blue eyes, so unusual for an ordinary mog like himself, still shone with cunning. The long, white whiskers fanned out alertly above the dashing bowtie collar. 

He wondered why M would choose this place for a rendez-vous. More importantly, he wanted to know what the hell was so important that it couldn't wait until morning. It's not like this was the first drone transport he'd crashed into the Thames. It's not like he wasn't cream-crackered after his shambolic getaway from the tuna tasting. 

His ears swiveled when he heard the door and he peered back. She'd arrived with her usual self-assurance, regal and imposing despite her small size, and strode to the bar with her tail held high. The half-Persian in her gave her the expression of perpetual reproachfulness - it kept the younger agents in their place. But Bond recognised it for firmness and resolve and liked it. It grounded him. 

"M."  
"Bond."  
  
She leapt onto the barstool beside him, still graceful despite advancing years, and gave her silver coat a brusque lick. She let out the slightest chirp. It caught the barcat's attention.

"Water, please."

Bond took another lick of his cream and swiveled his right ear at her sarcastically without looking over. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the twitch of her whiskers.

"Hang on. Make that a semi-skimmed instead. A double. Now, Bond, I'll cut to the chase--"  
  
"Ma'am, if this is about the drone then let me assure you I had no option but to ditch. Macavity's thugs--"

"007--"

"--someone must have tipped them off. I was about to access the supply chain files when--"

"Bond. Macavity Pussington can wait until morning. Let's talk about the drone." She sniffed at her bowl and her tone dropped, almost indistinct. "Your critical systems failed?"

"Comms. And nav. I'm sure Q branch will have an explanation."

"I see. I wanted to speak to you first before any unfortunate rumours had a chance to take hold. The drone did fail, but we are now certain it wasn't a direct technical fault with our hardware. We've suspected for some time that Macavity's ops were working on remotely compromising our flying fleet. Q branch have been trying their best to counter their efforts."

"Then why the hell..." Bond's fur bristled and he held back a hiss. "They knew. And sent us out in those things?"

"We weren't certain how and when our gear would be compromised - and to what extent. We had to keep flying. Which brings me to my point. Q takes full responsibility for not circumventing the sabotage in time. He believes his... that he's past his best. He's offered to retire and put the branch into younger, more capable hands. I'm here to tell you that as of tomorrow you and the other 00's will have a new quartermaster."

"Hopefully one that won't enjoy crashing me into the nearest body of water. " He felt bad about that almost immediately, even without the glare he got from M in response. He'd lost count of the times Q had saved his furry arse. He'd miss the old mog. "Where is Q off to then?"

"A very pleasant dairy farm in Devon. I do think he's looking forward to it. I suspect it's been a long time coming for him." She unfurled her tail from about herself and leapt down from the stool. "Your new quartermaster's first objective is to work closely with you on the Macavity file. Meet him tomorrow, 9AM sharp, on the South Bank, by the Golden Hind. He'll brief you on the plan going forward. Good night, Bond. Go easy on the cream. We'll catch up soon enough."

"Good night, M."

Bond nodded after her and looked back into his bowl. It had been a long night. He thought only vaguely about tomorrow's meeting. He trusted M's judgement in picking the best cat for the job. As long as he wasn't some kitten upstart with a milk mustache, Bond was sure he'd like him just fine.  


	2. Worthy Prey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Were you expecting some wise-whiskered old mog?"
> 
> "I had hoped you'd at least be weaned. You practically have a milk moustache."

Bond was roaring along Queen Victoria Drive on the way to his meeting. He was about to flick his silver boxmobile into fifth gear when he caught sight of the billboard. There she was, in all her slinky glory, spotted coat as slick and shiny as it had been the night before. The advert would have anyone believe that she owed all those good looks to Macavity's Meaty Tenders with Extra Gravy. She certainly owed him her fame. 

 /\\_/\  
\------- >( o.o )<\-------

Brushing tails with her at one of Macavity's parties was always going to be par for the course. Everyone who was anyone turned up to the cat food tycoon's legendary tuna tastings. Biannual invitations went out to all the fat cats, who descended on London in their private drones to bunt heads with the fashionable purebred set in Macavity's riverside mansion.

When Bond had arrived last night, weapon disguised in a faux fur holster, the mansion's glass foyer was already heaving with guests. The diamond-collared and gilded-clawed glitterati strutted about and slurped their shark stock martinis. Their host was nowhere in sight.

Bond had scanned the foyer thoroughly. A spiral of glass platforms curved about its walls, perfect for casual lounging and play. Several of the platforms lead off onto terraces and adjoining wings of the mansion and Bond quickly eyed up the one that would take him to Macavity's private residence and offices. He knew it from schematics, naturally, but it was only upon closer inspection that he noted how much the whole place looked like a fishbowl. Macavity was not without a sense of humour.

In the foyer's centre the absent host had installed his latest folly: a circular play area, surrounded by silk netting which dropped down from the ceiling. In it, the younger and less dignified of the guests were busy pursuing, with little success, a swarm of robotic butterflies. The creatures' iridescent wings glowed brightly as they fluttered, an elusive, ever-moving chandelier.

Bond had just made it to the cream bar and was sensing about the room when one of the insects escaped its enclosure. He tracked it as it traced a frantic path through the air, above the heads and tails of the guests who lashed at it with eager paws.

The creature settled on the back of her collar as she was gracefully descending down the glass platforms. She didn't flinch. She let it stay where it was while she made her way to the foyer floor and toward the cream bar.

Bond sized her up as she placed her order. His ears were at full attention. 

"Takes willpower not to swat at such tempting prey."

She flattened back her whiskers and blinked slowly. She didn't face him.

"I choose my prey carefully, Mr..."  
  
"Bond. James Bond. And what qualities do you look for in a worthy prey, Miss..."  
  
"Lynx. Vesper Lynx." She turned to fix him with her golden eyes. "And as for prey - it's size and scarcity. Dare I venture a guess that you're on a prowl yourself this evening, Mr Bond?"

"In a manner of speaking. I'm after an exceptionally big fish."

The robot insect twitched slightly. The light from its wings caught in her diamond-studded collar.

"Bigger than a tuna?"

"No. But far more elusive."

"In that case happy hunting."

She was about to add something when her tail was abruptly and rudely batted at by a huge black and white tom who'd appeared at the bar behind her. She clearly knew him because she didn't protest and turned to acknowledge him with a bored chirp. The batting brute glared and flattened his ears at Bond, who hissed internally but did nothing. This was no time chivalry or petty dust-ups. He had a mission to get on with.

The office vault promised to hold everything MEOW6 needed to know about the manufacturing methods behind Macavity's latest product line. The limited edition kibble was the only tangible link to the disappearance from across Europe of several hundred kittens whose families had fed them the stuff. Bond had seen the lost posters. It made his blood boil and his fur stand on end.

He made his way to the office undisturbed, his mind set on a smooth retrieval. The vault was held locked by a pheromone signature. Q branch had equipped his left paw with an artificial scent pad that would do nicely in getting him in. It was almost too easy. 

Bond stalked through the vast dark room towards the vault's metal doors. 

A growl came from behind him and he turned at once. One, two, three... four sets of eyes glowed from the shadows and then began to circle closer. He held still until he had them in sight: four hideous, hairless things, front paws strapped with weapons, ears smooshed down by metal helmets mounted with cameras and transmitters. They barely looked like cats at all, more like small-- no time to consider. Bond let the front of his body drop forward, readying himself. He waited for the right moment.

The first goon scurried forward. Bond dropped, rolled forward and rabbit kicked him straight into the others. The gang were distracted enough for him to regain his footing, leap up at the nearest wall, drop in their mists and further disperse them. He took the precious moments to leg it out of the room and down the long corridor for the nearest window.

He paused for a mere second, long enough for his hind leg to kick at the transport alert on his collar and summon his escape drone.  

As he tore out of the mansion and down the manicured lawn towards the dronepad, Macavity's goons in hot pursuit, he had at least one theory as to who might have given his game away. 

  
 /\\_/\  
\------- >( o.o )<\-------

Bond made his way to the Golden Hind and found an empty bench. He slumped on his side and gave his hind toes a stretch. It was a fine morning and bankside was mostly deserted but for a few scruffy strays prowling about the docks. The old cod clipper stood majestically in her bay and the Thames glistened, smooth and silvery like the belly of a fresh mackerel. Bond groomed himself idly and was just beginning to wonder why the hell the new Q might not have arranged this meeting at MEOW6 when he scented company. He heard a soft leap.

It was completely out of order for the scrawny black runt to wander into his personal space like this. But there he was, on the bench right next to Bond, green eyes narrowed, all paws neatly tucked under. The scrawniness of this brazen companion was exaggerated by his ridiculous thick mane - likely Turkish Angora, Bond thought - and an even more laughable fluffy tail which he'd curled about himself. To add to Bond's distaste, clipped about the intruder's tufty ears was a set of fashionable eyepieces he'd seen worn by Shoreditch hip cats. The tip of Bond's tail twitched and he had a good mind to send off a swipe. The runt spoke.

"Always makes me a bit melancholy. Grand old vessel, once bringing sustenance to millions. Now landlocked, left to be gawked at by tourists. Inevitability of progress, don't you think? What do you see?"

Bond's ears flattened in annoyance. He ought to have growled a warning but he thought bluntness would do just as well.    
  
"A bloody big fishing boat. Excuse me."

He stood and made to leave. The runt spoke again. 

"007. I'm your new Quartermaster."

Bond turned and sat back on his hind legs.

"You've got to be joking."  
  
"Were you expecting some wise-whiskered old mog?"  
  
"I had hoped you'd at least be weaned. You practically have a milk moustache."  
  
"Where I get my milk from his hardly relevant."  
  
"No. But your competence is."  
  
"I'd venture I can do more damage with a tablet and my extra toe while sipping my bone broth than you can do with a full set of claws out in the field."

A polydactyl boffin. Of course.

"With all those clever extra digits, what do you need me for?"

"Every now and then, blood has to be drawn."

"Or not drawn. It's hard to know the difference when you're sat at home sipping your bone broth... Q."

"007." 

They butted foreheads in greeting. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Make me happy: send me your photo suggestions for each character.


End file.
